


Freefall

by Yeah_JSmith



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Drunk accents, F/M, John is treasure, Pre-Canon, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 06:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13653621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeah_JSmith/pseuds/Yeah_JSmith
Summary: In 1984, a dreamer fell in love with a grifter.Or; Ruth Aspen meets John Wilde and both of their lives derail like a train full of Midnicampum holicithias.





	1. Two Foxes Walk Into A Bar...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnceNeverTwiceAlways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceNeverTwiceAlways/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Wilde meets Ruth Aspen. It's not an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some headcanon backstory for Nick’s parents. John’s drunk accent is the same one my grandmother used when she had some drink in her. For some reason, my (old, trained-out) Appalachian accent kind of nestles alongside hers, so I can’t guarantee that I’m giving you a great picture of what he sounds like. It’s a very small part of this story, but I’m a nerd about that stuff.
> 
> This is dedicated to OnceNeverTwiceAlways, whose ideas and words ended up giving Ruth and John’s story heart and soul, when it was just a bunch of dry facts before. Chapters 2 and 3 will be out...sometime.

A face like that, she thought, belonged in gay porn. He was pretty enough to take the money shot. His muzzle was soft, with dark whiskers standing out against his white and bright orange fur. His nose was more black than purple, a holdover from ancient times. And those _eyes._ Big, amber, and shining, she almost couldn’t tell they had vestigial slit pupils. He was truly the picture of a wild thing, which meant that he probably wasn’t getting many propositions. Animalian vixens wanted boring. Steady. Dependable. But Ruth had no time for convention.

He was a sartor, at least in theory. In practice, he worked at a bookstore and had a side business mending holes and split seams. She’d heard him go on and on about Zora Seale Hurston and Vladimir Nabarkov and Patricia Lynx, each individual lecture segueing into each other flawlessly despite the _vast_ differences between them. She’d watched him work his needle through fabric with a light, deft touch. She’d needed to know, after all, the kinds of things he enjoyed, so that she could get to this moment: John Wilde, in the pub, with the cider.

There were no other vixens here, so she’d had plenty of offers, but she wanted him – no, not _wanted._ He was just a piece in the game.

 _Just business,_ she reminded herself when he looked at her again. It was adorable, how he thought he was being sneaky behind those dark glasses he always wore, but Wilde wasn’t exactly subtle, and she was not unaware of her attractiveness. It was deliberate. Every morning she brushed her coat until it shone, which was a painful but necessary practice. She painted the lashes around her eyes – green, a rare color for foxes – and kept her figure trim and her claws neat. She had a standard bone structure underneath her fur, but she knew the right amount of fang to show when she smiled. It was the little things that, when combined together, could make anyone appealing. It was so easy even a stupid little bunny could manage it, should she have the forethought to try.

Wilde swayed on his feet, and Ruth took the opportunity to sidle up to him, a coy smile showing the tips of her teeth and nothing more. Beneath her long black coat, her ice blue dress was tight enough to squeeze her fluff over the neckline. It was regrettable that the coat covered her shoulders, but she needed it to cover the large hole in the back of her dress.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said in a low, enticing tone, “and I know you’ve been watching me.”

“Et’s true,” he admitted cheerfully, the alcohol in his system making him more suggestible. She tried not to roll her eyes. Cheerful drunks were worse than angry ones, in her experience, and it looked like he couldn’t quite keep his carefully-trained city accent up when he had a few drinks in him. The light hop of his _i_ and the hush of his _u_ reminded her painfully of home, and she hated him just a little for being free to slip.

This was new territory for her. During sober interludes, sex was a valuable tool if she wanted to get a knife in his back or a paw in his wallet, but Ruth didn’t want any of those things from Wilde. He could be a valuable resource; he had an “in” with Alex Fleecer, the evangelist whose net worth was only barely eclipsed by his pride. Rumor had it that Fleecer, slimy, slithering lowlife that he was, had a fetish. He would be such an easy mark, so long as she could get an introduction. Wilde could give that to her.

Wilde _would_ give that to her. He was an easy mark, too; mammals like him were always easy to lead around by the nose. Wide-eyed, wondering, gluttons for affection who wore their hearts on their sleeves. It helped that he was pretty. Spending time with him would not be a hardship to her eyes, at least. And if she had a pang of homesickness every once in a while, that could be ignored. The payoff would be worth it in the end.

“What are you doing here? And alone, at that? You could have your pick of any vixen, looking the way you do,” she teased. It was a bit heavy-pawed, but he was drunk enough that he probably wouldn’t be looking too hard.

“Oh, but what sart a tod would I be ef I took jus any vixen ta bed?” He sounded genuinely surprised. She fought down irritation at the swell in her chest. “De trut is, I’m not so popular as you might tink. Back home et wouldn’t ha been such a trouble, but Animalia has funny ideas about the look of a mammal.”

“I think you look lovely,” she said, and she meant it.

“You’re kind for sayen so, Miss…?”

“Ciara Byrne. And you are?”

“John Wilde,” he replied, taking her proffered paw in one of his and patting the back of it with the other. It was a tiny touch and then it was over.

He swayed again. He was _just about_ there.”Well, John, why don’t you come over out of the light and tell me about yourself?”

* * *

In finance circles, it was coming to be known as _affinity fraud,_ but in the quiet of the morning, Ruth only felt like she’d been fooling herself. John was curled up on her couch under a blanket – _the_ blanket, the only thing she had left of her father’s family, _what had she been thinking –_ and having a good dream, by the look of it.

Flashes of the night before.

Huddled together in a corner booth, John’s painfully familiar voice washing over her. Acquiescing to one drink, then two, then four. Reminiscing about the Great Shepherd movement that had driven several fox families into Animalia seeking refuge, including Ruth’s own. (Why had she told him that?) Giggling about something. Trying to support each other. John forgetting his own address. Trying to hail a cab, only to get turned away.

And John was sleeping off their evening on her couch. He was as pretty in the morning sun peeking through her curtains as he had been against the dingy lamplight in the pub, and it seemed unfair that what she had to work to cultivate should come so effortlessly to a mammal who didn’t care. The John Wilde Ruth had been tailing for days, who spoke at length in that careful, boring city accent about books Ruth would never read or care about, was not the same John Wilde who’d stumbled over his fondest dream as they’d stumbled home.

_“I’ll do et,” he said with a grand smile, his paws forming two neat parallel lines in the air in front of them. He mimed pushing fabric. “I’ll get a Bearnina. And a loen. Dey’ll come from all ovar ta buy de finest suits in de contre. You’ll see, Ciara. Et’s a John Wilde guarantee.”_

They hadn’t slept together. In her foolishly drunken state, she would have allowed it, but it hadn’t even occurred to him to try. She wasn’t usually one for vanity, as it was a dangerous weakness, but she couldn’t help but feel snubbed. Was this it? Was 25 the year her looks burned out and she had to fall back on _actual_ seduction?

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” came a quiet, husky voice. His words were bland again, even as thick with sleep as they were. When she looked, John was licking his teeth through a yawn, left ear a-flick.

“Just the usual things. Breakfast. What to do with strange foxes who follow me home.”

“Well, if that’s not a hint I don’t know what is.” He smiled ruefully and stood, bringing the corners of her blanket together. “Thank you for allowing me to stay the night, Miss Byrne. Don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.”

She snorted. “Probably fallen asleep in that alley and gotten mugged by a sheep.”

“Probably,” he agreed pleasantly, finishing his folding and placing the blanket over the arm of the couch. His smile didn’t falter. Why was he smiling? Couldn’t he tell that she was _lying_ to him?

 _Go home,_ some part of her said. _Run away and don’t look back, John._

“You’re lucky I was there, aren’t you,” her mouth said.

“Oh, I’d say everyone at the pub was lucky. It’s not every day those bastards get to look upon such a lovely thing as yourself. Usually we’ve only got each other to look at. I _will_ say I’m glad you gave me enough favor to keep me from freezing my tail off. Thanks for that.”

Ruth looked away. Her game hinged on his naivete, but she hadn’t been prepared for a full frontal assault. What must it be like to be able to just say things like that? She couldn’t remember a time at which she hadn’t measured her words and worn her expressions like realistic masks. Even last night, as drunk as she had been, she’d never strayed from Ciara Byrne.

“You’re welcome,” she said, pitching her tone to be only slightly enticing. Seduction was funny; one wrong move and she might have an entirely different problem. John might want to bed her instead of be her friend. Somehow, that didn’t seem as funny as it had before.

He looked at her carefully, then at the coat rack, then back at her. Her hackles rose, but she kept up her most pleasant smile. “You know, that dress you were wearing last night was lovely. I can fix the hole in it, if you like. Wearing that coat all the time can’t be comfortable for you. Or safe.”

“Yeah, I...I’ll bring it in one of these days, she told him, taken aback at his open, beaming smile. Suddenly, she had no idea who was conning whom, but she knew herself well enough to know that she’d take him up on his offer, even if his contacts turned out to be a bust. _Cheap._ Silly little Ruth Aspen, writing his name in her mouth in bright pink crayon.

She wanted to hit him for being so genuine. He wasn’t remarkable enough to shine like this, yet here he was, brighter than all the jewels she’d never been able to afford.


	2. Money, Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruth is a seasoned con artist, but this is the first time she's conned herself. It's not pleasant for anybody and John is probably an alien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for period-typical sexism and canon-typical fantastic racism, both kind of grudgingly internalized, vague mentions of sexual violence (neither portrayed nor directly addressed), and discussions of religion. This is kind of a sad chapter, but the next one will be so fluffy you'll be sick.

Ruth dropped off her dress on a Saturday afternoon. John’s apartment was becoming a familiar stop on her way home, though she’d never actually been inside. It was probably not very good to lurk like this – professionals would call it stalking – but he was so careless with his safety after he left the bookstore. One of these days he’d give money to the wrong mammal and get hurt. She was looking after her investment. And if she maybe stopped in more and more often to listen to him chatter about favorite authors and contemporary literature, well, it was good to ingratiate herself to a mark, right? If he thought of her fondly, he’d be easier to convince.

She didn’t ask herself why she hadn’t bothered to bring up Alex Fleecer in the two months she’d known John personally. The answer wasn’t hard to deduce, even if she hated the implications.

“I’m surprised you came up this time,” he said mildly, that hinted grin playing on his muzzle. “Was beginning to think you had... _nefarious_ intentions.”

Surprising herself, Ruth lowered her voice to near-seductive tones and asked, “How do you know I don’t?”

“I suppose there’s no way to tell.”

“And yet, you’re letting me into your apartment.”

“Ciara, you’re the only mammal I’ve ever met who will listen to me sing the praises of obscure dead authors she’ll never care about without wishing she could chew her own ears off. If you were an _assassin,_ I’d invite you up. Would you like a coffee? Or would you rather come back later to pick up your dress?”

“I might as well stay.”

He smiled outright as he spread her ice blue dress out on a board and grabbed some pins. “There’s a fresh pot over there on the counter. Mugs are in the cupboard above it.”

She moved around the apartment as Ruth, wondering why it felt incongruous. John knew her as Ciara, someone she’d been before. She was usually as comfortable in Ciara’s fur as she was in Ruth’s, but this was different. He was not one of her regular marks. He was – and she hated to admit it, but it was _true –_ special. Not a piece of shit. There were mammals who weren’t walking garbage, apparently, or at least one: John Wilde.

On the counter was a large coffee pot and a small paw grinder, something she remembered from her mother’s trailer. It brought to mind the scent of cheap coffee and soft-boiled eggs, the sound of officers pronouncing their nesting permits invalid and the reluctant sighs of the matriarch as they moved on yet again. Perhaps it felt wrong because John knew more of Ruth than he did of Ciara. She was struck with the odd and _very stupid_ urge to tell him she was more lie than truth.

Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on his sofa to watch him work.

John’s eyes were intense as he focused on the tear in her dress, snipping off ragged strings and arranging the pins in a neat, tight line. He had a stiff board perched on the side of his shin just to the side of where his right ankle rested on his left knee, but he didn’t have a machine in sight. She remembered something he’d said the night they formally met: his machine, one that had been built in the 60s during the quality revolution, was broken, and he was saving up for something that would last.

(How hard would it be to steal one for him? She hadn’t had to steal anything in a long time; how was security at nice shops? Did Bearnina have its own store?)

His paws were so _sure._ She could spend hours watching him, she thought as he planted a needle in his soft wristlet and gently worked thread through the eye. How could a grip that firm do such delicate and detailed work? How could those large, sharp fingers be so precise with the tiny knot at the end of the thread? Into the dress his needle went, the thread tail disappearing under the fabric as he pulled upward. He pulled the needle down, his paw reappearing from under the skirt of her dress, and then back up to finish a tiny stitch she wouldn’t be able to point out without having watched him. The tiny smile pulling at the edge of his mouth was almost comical against his crystal focus, but she wasn’t laughing at the swoopy little thrill it sent through her.

She hated herself for wondering what it would be like to have that focus directed at her, to feel his expert paws working at her body instead of her three-dollar thrift store dress. Her jaw and tongue ached from how hard she was biting down with her flattest teeth, and her muscles felt tight as a coiled spring, ready to jump at the slightest relief. She hated _him_ for being so open and sincere.

“How do you do that,” she blurted.

He didn’t stop his in-and-out pulls with his needle, but he did raise an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“The stiff posture,” she clarified, although that wasn’t what she’d meant. “How can you sit that way for hours? Doesn’t it hurt your back?”

“Oh, it does,” he said cheerily. “The work is worth it, though. Don’t you have something you enjoy so much you’d go through a little pain for it?”

Ruth thought for a moment, trying to come up with something. Money, probably, though she’d never worked an honest job in her life, so it probably didn’t measure up to the kind of enjoyment he was talking about. What was she passionate about? Was she passionate about anything? She _did_ enjoy the con, putting pieces together and waiting for the mark to take the bait, the leading, the teasing, the eventual payoff. Even that, though, was not a passion, and she didn’t know if she enjoyed it because it was enjoyable or because it was what she’d been taught to do.

Reluctantly, she admitted, “No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s just a shame, innit? No fox should go through life widout joy.”

She watched his mouth move, simple words and a simple smile, and felt like screaming as the ancients had. John’s – whatever it was – _purity,_ maybe – was revolting. Repellent. Dangerous. Unattractive.

(Beautiful.)

In a soft, earnest voice, she lied, “You sound like my mother.”

Jaelle Aspen had been the one to teach Ruth to navigate a harsh, unforgiving world, running her through posture and presentation drills, giving her treats whenever she brought back trinkets she’d stolen from unsuspecting passersby, sheltering her from the worst of the spite until she’d been old enough to filter truth from presumption. Ruth couldn’t actually remember her birth mother, but the matriarch had taken her in, made her part of the family. She would always be grateful to Auntie Jaelle for giving her a home, as small as it had been, and a family, as foreign as they had seemed at first, but leaving the family to settle down in Zootopia had been an act of defiance. An attempt to _find_ joy in an increasingly joyless life she had once felt privileged to be part of. The idea of Jaelle Aspen describing joy as a necessity was as comical as Ruth’s sudden desire to nibble on the crescent of John’s left neck and shoulder.

“Your mother’s a smart vixen, then.”

“She certainly was.” In and out the needle dipped, guided by sharp pins and steady paws, and Ruth chewed her lip. Did he know? Did he suspect? “You’re a smart tod yourself.”

“S funny,” he told her, uncommonly solemn. “No one uses that term here. _Tod._ It’s always dog. You remind me of home, Miss Byrne.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I like it. Memories are allowed to be bittersweet.”

Her head was screaming, screaming, screaming, but she only smiled demurely and sipped her coffee, looking for all the world like she had no troubles at all. John pulled the needle to and fro, tiny invisible stitches repairing the rip in her cheap dress, and she found herself jealously coveting his attention, his paws, and his vile optimism.

The coffee was good though.

* * *

“...And the silly ass tumbled all the way down the stairs,” John cried some hours later, telling a tale of a soused kiang over paella and sangria. The fancy niche café was more expensive than she was comfortable with, but the addition of Alex Fleecer – who looked less amused at the story than she was – made it a worthwhile investment.

“Thanks for that image, John, it’ll help me sleep at night. So...how did you two meet,” Ruth asked, leaning toward Fleecer just a little. She kept her tone light and cheerful, but shifted her smile into something a tad more predatory, gauging Fleecer’s reaction.

He seemed to consider her a little more than he had previously when John replied, “Oh, I went to one of his sermons and we had a fascinating discussion afterwards.”

“You call it a discussion. Passersby would have called it a knock-down, drag-out argument,” Fleecer said dryly. He turned to Ruth. “John and I have never seen eye to eye on matters of dogma or spirituality, but it’d been a long time since a nonbeliever really questioned me without trying to change my mind.”

His warm smile was as disconcerting as it was encouraging. Fleecer was decently built, for a sheep, and she supposed he was handsome enough if you were into that sort of thing, but Ruth only wanted to stick her paws down his pants to get at his wallet. She looked away, pretending bashfulness, and noted John’s expression. He looked like he was on the verge of understanding something. But she was too far in now to retreat. “I suppose a mammal like you doesn’t change his mind very often?”

“Not when it comes to the Lord. He has always been there for me when I needed him. I don’t pray to the God of the North because I want him to answer; I simply give thanks because he already has.”

Ugh. True belief. What a bore. Ruth hadn’t been born into the Church of Northern Winds, but the matriarch’s family had been firm believers; she could pay lip service to the Saints and recite prayers, but she had never connected to it. As a young girl, she’d assumed she was simply unworthy of feeling the presence of the God of the North. Later, she’d realized it wasn’t anything so personal; religion was just another feel-good con. That _her_ family had fallen for it was a point of shame, and in fact, had been the catalyst for her eventual departure. But _Fleecer_ had fallen for it, too, at least outwardly, and although it was a different sect, she knew she could use that against him. Believers were easy targets once you knew what to look for. Faith was exploitable, as evidenced by the large house and lavish lifestyle financed by Fleecer’s devotees.

“What conviction,” she murmured, pushing aside her own irritation and turning it into admiration. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about your Lord.”

Fleecer looked her up and down, as well as he was able over the table, and told her, “I’d love to discuss the subject sometime, my dear.”

“Oh, my.” Ruth lowered her muzzle so she could look up at him through her lashes. “I’d love that too, Mr. Fleecer.”

“Oh, it’s Alex, please.”

She nodded. “Alex, then.”

“It’s – I’m glad to see – it’s good to see you get along so well,” John told them very, _very_ quietly, sound caught between walls.

Ruth reached over the table and patted his paw. “It was good of you to introduce us, John, thank you.”

It was for the best. It _was._ John was everything she wasn’t, and the less time she had him on her radar, the better it would be for both of them. She was good at being little-while friends with anyone, but she couldn’t be little-while friends with John. She didn’t think she could handle being friends at all. The con was over now. She had what she wanted. They could both move on.

* * *

Alex Fleecer had admirers and hangers-on, females and males alike, devotees who pledged every cent they could spare to his bloated church. Over the course of eleven days, Ruth catalogued all of the ones she met, filing them according to usefulness. Most of them weren’t useful at all. This – the research, the watching, setting up all the dominoes to be knocked down, lining up the tumblers in the lock on someone’s psyche – was supposed to be the best part, but something was wrong. It fell flat, and she she couldn’t figure out why. Alex was insufferable, of course, more God than mammal and fond of listening to himself talk, but that wasn’t anything new. At least when he focused on his deity he neglected to brag about his Sapphire Lake houseboat.

It should have been perfect. The pieces were setting _themselves_ up. And still she wasn’t satisfied. Perhaps it was best to speed up the con. She didn’t want him to notice how despondent she felt and try to soothe it with sermons and the stupid catch phrases he used on his _flock._

“Alex,” she said, fluttering her lashes only slightly. He’d invited her to his home in the Meadows, a large, picturesque thing far too large for one sheep. The excuse had been to introduce her to the writings of S. Hornsby, an 18th century religious scholar, but the sheets were freshly changed and crisply pressed and he just so _happened_ to have a bottle of Ciara Byrne’s favorite Moscato. Ruth _hated_ Moscato. She preferred a good stout any day, or at least a nice dry Cabernet Sauvignon, but that was why all of her aliases liked sweet wines and pale ales: she’d be less likely to actually finish them.

He focused on her, dragging his eyes along her shoulders. She knew there was something viscerally stimulating about seeing a female on a bed, though she personally didn’t care about it, especially a female as performative as Ruth. He swallowed as she toyed with her costume jewelry, looping the false pearls around one clawed finger. “Yes?”

“Come and sit with me.” He obliged. Ruth did not delude herself by assuming that he’d _obeyed,_ though. Mammals like him thought only about their own wants, and he wanted her. He had ever since their dinner with John. He was a fetishist and a swindler, and he was good at both, according to evidence and rumors. She allowed him to settle his hoof on her thigh, even opened her knees slightly beneath her flowing brown skirt to encourage exploration. “You have been...uncommonly nice to me, compared to other religious mammals I’ve met. Are you trying to convert me, or do you just like me?”

“Can’t it be both?” He took the opportunity she’d presented and stroked along her inner thigh. “You are uncommonly clever, compared to other vixens I’ve met. I’m sure you’re smart enough to understand what I mean when I say that I want to help you let the Lord in, no matter how it needs to look for you to receive him.”

Oh, _brother,_ there it was. She would never learn not to underestimate the ego of a male in a position of power. Ruth had expected the speciesist backhoofed compliment. She’d expected the insinuation about conversion through the power of cock. She _hadn’t_ expected him to be so obvious, though. The rumor mill had downplayed his exploits, apparently. She thought about the recorder in her purse, catching every word and sound on a cassette, and gave him a coquettish smile even as her stomach turned. Would the blackmail be worth it? Could she really bring herself to sleep with the premier advocate of virtue and chastity, even for the thousands of dollars she was fairly certain he’d pay to keep her quiet? This had seemed like such a good idea just months ago. It was all according to plan…

“You know how to make a girl feel wanted, Mr. Fleecer,” she murmured. She couldn’t _help it._ She’d been acting for so long that finishing the con was a matter of pride and principle.

“You’re no girl, Ciara,” he told her, voice dropping along with his nose. A spike of anxiety hit her as he moved his mouth closer to his neck. He was so big. Bigger than he’d felt just moments ago. “Oh, my dear, I can smell your excitement.”

Except she wasn’t excited, which was unusual in and of itself, but it did raise questions about the other females he’d seduced. She had only heard the good stories, but if he – a sheep, a species with a finely-tuned sense of smell – couldn’t tell the difference between excitement and fear, _where were the bad ones?_

“I,” she said, hearing the shake in her own voice. If she were to go through with this, it could work in her favor, but the extra-strength grip on her wrist was enough to tell her that was a bad idea. How could she have misread the situation this much? Distraction. Stupidity. Desperation, maybe. “Alex, I don’t think-”

“Shh, don’t fret. I’ll take care of you, love. I’ll show you the heavens.”

Three months ago, she would have thrown her head back and faked a pleased moan when he bit down on her shoulder with his large, powerful teeth. She would have forced down any misgivings and gone through with her plan. Monetary gain or not, blackmail and extortion were easy with mammals like Alex Fleecer. But tonight, she pulled away, flipping her puffy arm to dig a warning claw into his. “If you would shut up for five seconds, Alex, you’d know that my full sentence would have been _I don’t think we should do this,_ and now I’m certain of it.”

“I understand your reluctance. Change is always hard-”

“Yes, just as hard as your _magic dick,”_ she interjected venomously. “I am going to walk out of this house, and you will not follow me, or I swear to you I will _claw your eyes out.”_

She saw the fear in his eyes, then, at her predatory snarl. Ewes had their own weapons, but there was a funny distinction. Prey mammals instinctively flinched away from fangs and sharp claws. Ancient foxes had only ever gone after lambs and small sheep – there was just _too much bulk_ on an adult ram – but that never factored into their imaginations. Ruth knew that her natural weapons were the only reason he wasn’t pressing the issue.

She was sure he’d done it before, to other mammals who were perhaps not as willing to threaten him for fear of either physical or spiritual reprisal. It was too bad the police wouldn’t believe a vixen. Even with her recording, Fleecer would spin it, and she’d either look like a liar or a fool. Ruth Aspen had no power, but she did have her dignity, and that was better than nothing.

* * *

Saturday afternoon, she brought an offering of 50 dollars and pants to be hemmed. John looked her up and down with his pretty slitted amber eyes, and whatever he saw made him deflate. He hadn’t looked upset to see her. Now he did.

“I have an apology to make,” she told him as he took her pants. He ignored the bill in her paw, but that wasn’t a surprise. John was too _good,_ and after this – after this, she’d leave him be. He would be furious with her, and she would stay away, but this time there might be actual catharsis involved instead of a complete and sudden disconnect.

“You can apologize for whatever you like once your paws stop shaking,” he replied. “For now, I...did something happen, Ciara?”

 _Run,_ her mind whispered. The pants were nice, but they could be left behind. She could run. But she didn’t.

“I was.” She swallowed and hated herself for being so hesitant. She was _Ruth Aspen,_ and she wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. He barely seemed like a real mammal, though. He was nice. He was kind. He spoke with an accent when he wasn’t paying attention and he loved books and he loved sewing and she’d never met someone who just _loved_ like that, who threw himself into things for the joy of it. She didn’t know how to talk to him without tailoring her words to him, another cheap con in a string of them. He deserved better than that. “I was at Alex Fleecer’s home Wednesday night. I was going to sleep with him.”

“You were going to have sex with the virgin preacher,” he said skeptically, looking between her and the pants. He made up his mind and with a gentle paw on her upper back, he led her to the couch and sat next to her, a respectful distance between them.

“Virgin, my _foot._ That _despicable_ ram’s had more partners than you’ve had _customers,_ I’d bet,” she snipped, and then hung her head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

“You should if you’re angry with me. I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong. I thought we were friends, but I didn’t see you at the bookstore for a _week and a half,_ and I didn’t smell you anywhere, and – is it because I introduced you? You seemed interested in his work, so I thought you might like meeting him. I had no idea he would be…”

He gestured vaguely, unable to say what they both knew _should_ be said.

“No. No, you didn’t do anything, John. You’ve been a perfect friend. You’ve been a perfect mammal, really, and I kept thinking of you when I should have been focusing on Alex. I’ve never said no before, not when there was something to be gained, but I couldn’t go through with it. I was afraid to face you again, knowing how I got there. And I have to apologize for _that.”_

“How you got there?” His eyes lowered. “What did you have to gain, exactly?”

She could do this. She just had to separate her brain from her heart. She could grieve later, but if he saw how much the truth cost her, she wouldn’t be able to give him even that, as small and meaningless as _truth_ always was. “I heard rumors about him. I watched him and verified them myself. Other vixens say he’s a generous lover and _very_ generous with hush money. It seemed like such an easy thing-”

“A con. You tried to run a con on someone I thought was an upstanding mammal. I considered him my friend. I was wrong about him and...I was wrong about you, too, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were. I’m not who you think I am,” she said defiantly, meeting his eyes. It hurt _so much_ and she’d take all of that, because she knew she deserved it.

“I was just a means to an end. And I was supposed to think you really enjoyed my company.”

She shook her head. “That’s where it all went _wrong._ I wasn’t supposed to like you. But you were funny, and kind, and when you talked you took me out of this world and into one that sparkled. I couldn’t get you out of my head or out of my nose and I followed you because I was terrified that you’d – you’d get _hurt_ being so nice to mammals who’d eat you alive, and I tried to fool myself into thinking I was just protecting my investment but I wasn’t. I like you. I enjoy your company. Watching you sew had me almost crawling out of my own skin. I have to apologize because I’m selfish and horrible. I don’t even deserve to apologize to you, but I couldn’t just leave you forever without explaining that you did nothing wrong, I’m just a heartless bitch, and-”

“Ciara, please don’t cry,” he said, taking her paws so delicately they were hardly touching.

“I know I’m ugly when I cry,” she agreed, water in her throat wetting her voice.

“Don’t say that. You’re beautiful when you cry. And you’re not a - what you called yourself. It’s just that you’re apologizing for something I already knew.”

“You knew I was...using you?”

“I didn’t know what for, but I’m enthusiastic, not _stupid._ You’re good at what you do, but you’re not as good as you think you are.” She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved, but she only listened to him continue, “So now I only have one question for you.”

“What is it?”

“Who are you,” John asked her softly.

“I’m a fraud and an idiot and a silly little girl falling for someone who is far, _far_ too good for her,” she replied, ugly fat tears blocking his face from her eyes. “I’m _Ruth Aspen_ on paper. I have no idea who I really am anymore.”

 _“Ruth Aspen_ has no idea who she is.” He leaned forward and thumbed at the wetness on her cheek. “If it helps, I don’t know who John Wilde is either. I’m 23. But I know that I like you.”

“You don’t even _know_ me.”

“Sorry, let me clarify. I like the you I see when you aren’t paying attention. The you who laughed at my jokes and leaned on me when we were both stumbling drunk. The you who gets starry-eyed at bad poetry and is content to sit quietly and watch things happen. I like that you’re driven enough to go out and get what you want by any means necessary, even if those means are beyond someone like me. I like that you’re smart, even if you try to hide it. I like your voice. I like that you want to protect me from whatever imagined ills you conjure up in your busy brain. And I like that you came to me ready to apologize even though you didn’t expect me to forgive you.”

Her shoulders drooped, and she was dressed in layers but she felt naked. “I don’t want you to forgive me.”

“That’s just too bad, Miss Aspen. I, of course, will not try to stop you if you want to leave here and never look back. But I would be honored if you’d give me a chance to prove that I like you very much, and you don’t have to be as sorry as you think you do.” He laughed and squeezed her paw briefly. “Maybe a little sorry. It wasn’t very nice to underestimate me, and I wouldn’t have been opposed to helping you meet a friend – a _former_ friend, my apologies – even if you were a stranger. But I’m glad you took the time to get to know me.”

She gaped at him. _How?_

He shifted. “Have I got something on my face?”

“No. I just can’t figure out how you manage to be so good. I meant it when I said you’re far too good for me,” she admitted.

“Good thing that’s not up to you to decide,” he returned with that stupid charming smile.


	3. I Know What You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises necessarily happen when you least expect them. Which, if you're in the business of confidence, _ought_ to be a rare occurrence. Ruth is either losing her edge or asking the wrong questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to Jay...last week, anyway. It’s official, I’m now Nick’s age. In celebration, this was supposed to be 187% fluff, but serious plot crept into it anyway. It’s still mostly fluff. Also, the song from this chapter is [ Johnny Jump Up,](https://youtu.be/8OkAd6MyLzA) as sung by Christy Moore in the early 70’s, accompanied by tenor banjo. Um, I’m off the wagon again but I’m pretty sure this chapter is fine, if overly descriptive. Warning for pretentious purple prose and suggestive sensuality.

The best part of John was his brain. She had never paid much attention to males who invested time in serious, honest inquiry, because usually that type was more “on the ball,” and therefore more likely to inquire about _her._ Self-involved shallow mammals were her typical fare, so she was out of her element, but the situation was different. She wasn’t Ciara Byrne or Lisbeth Angler or Florence Ink. With John, she was just Ruth, whatever that meant.

Thursday evenings he hosted a children’s book club, and it was so sweet she thought she could burst. Kits of all species loved spreading out in front of him, listening to his mellifluous recitations bringing life from pages. The pictures were nothing next to his voice and the little smile that always crept across his muzzle when he enjoyed himself. He never showed his eyes, preferring to wear his dark glasses in the harsh fluorescents of the bookstore, but she imagined the little ones would be fascinated with his appearance. She certainly was.

 _The little ones._ Ruth didn’t care for children, really, but John loved them, and that was enough to make them tolerable for an hour. And their upcoming excursion to John’s favorite pub would probably be enough to restore her dislike. Attachment to _cute_ things wasn’t something she wanted or needed at this point in her life.

“-and it’s a joy to be able to _share_ it with them,” he was telling her, gesticulating with undue enthusiasm. “Too often they are deprived of the joy of reading, what with the rise of latchkey kits and the loss of the Sahara Library.”

Ruth raised an eyebrow at that. “You disapprove of latchkey kits?”

“Not the kits themselves, but...the _necessity_ of it. Imagine if I were to have kits. Or you.”

 _Or both of us together,_ she thought, and regretted it even in the privacy of her own mind. It was ridiculous, because she didn’t enjoy the thought of any part of parenthood, except for the selfish ability to keep a little piece of John with her even if he disappeared or didn’t like her anymore.

“They’d be left alone because we’d need to work. Even if we had spouses, both parents would need to work. Best case scenario we’d be able to get a neighbor to babysit them, but you know how it is for foxes.”

“So I suppose you don’t want them,” she offered. They were venturing into a part of town she generally avoided – there weren’t enough targets here – and if she relished the closeness as she edged nearer to John, well, that could be a secret kept.

“I don’t see any in the near future,” he agreed, “but maybe someday. Hopefully someday. Ideally I’d be an established sartor and I could teach my kit, or kits. Keep them with me while they weren’t in school. Or even better, I’d have a spouse who made enough that I could work from home. Stay home with them. We’d read, and do homework, and I’d teach them to cook and make their mother pretty dresses for her birthday and _why_ are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she lied, averting her eyes with a bit of a snap in her voice. She’d been looking at him with awe, because there was that _love_ again. Genuine excitement about these theoretical kits, about being able to teach and nurture someone who didn’t even exist yet, warming her chest and pulling at the corners of her mouth. And she’d been looking at him with distrust, because he was suspiciously perfect, and in her experience, perfection was _always_ a lie. What was wrong with him? What dark secret was he hiding? Was he really some kind of monster who was only single because he had his exes’ heads in a freezer somewhere?

(Surely not. But she’d been horribly wrong about Alex Fleecer, and it was wise to question her own judgment after that.)

“Well, Ruth Aspen, you’re welcome to look at me any time, in any way you wish. I like it when you look at me.”

 _I like looking,_ she wanted to say, but it wouldn’t come out. It was something she would have said to a mark, and now that it was true, it felt particularly slimy. Instead, she repeated, “I’m _not_ looking.”

“I am.”

She snorted. As good as she was at reading others, she could never quite tell if John’s blunt honesty was truly honest or just a delicate con. “Why do you use my full name?”

He leaned in, his paw settling somewhere in her lumbar region. It sent a spark through her, especially when his voice – lowered, nearing seductive – left breath in her fur as he replied, “I want to know you fully. And I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you that I’m serious. Ruth Aspen is my friend. Ruth Aspen is someone I’ve come to admire. You can be yourself around me. I’d love it if you would.”

There was a distinct chill in the air, she decided, that had nothing to do with John’s words or John’s intentions or the realization that John knew her desires. She wanted to imagine that he wanted her, as in _wanted, desired, craved,_ but hope was a complicated tangle she’d always staunchly avoided. Fortunately, she escaped the conversation as they neared the _Fanged Barrel,_ a newish establishment that catered exclusively to small mammals. She could hear strains of tenor banjo and laughter intermingled, and she could smell fox, and she suddenly understood why he loved this place.

Tonight she was going to drink too much stout and laugh at John’s stupid jokes, and all of her aliases could fuck off.

* * *

There was something about counting? Tabbing? It didn’t matter in the warmth of inebriation and John’s large, wide paw on her head, claws carding through her headfur as they shared a corner table and cups both, his body heat and hers and a kind of catching edge of cheer from the other patrons. But then John leaned in and murmured, “You’ll like dis one, Rut,” and hopped off the bench with an awkward twist that sent him stumbling. He laughed at himself, sent a wink her way, and then made his way up to the stage just recently vacated by the performing group.

He picked up the banjo, sat in front of the microphone, and announced, “I haven’t sung in 2 years, but dere’s a special vixen what needs cheerin’ ope, so here we are.”

His first attempt was clumsy, but he chuckled and told them he was very drunk – that got a laugh from several mammals – and started over with surprising skill.

_“I’ll tell you a story that happened to me_

_One day as I went out to Youghal by the sea…”_

His singing voice was different from the voice he used to captivate the kits, but _oh,_ it was lovely. Smooth and strong, his notes rested in all the right spots and his accent, more pronounced in song, pulled at her core. She could smell the fire and dirt and the air on summer nights leaning against the camper, Uncle Peter strumming their secondpaw guitar and singing, Auntie Sarah either singing along or accompanying with her priceless violin. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to remember the good things (great things, even). It had been so long since she’d even looked at Uncle Peter’s guitar, which she'd stolen out of spite. John’s funny little song made her want to take it out and try it again, even if it meant filing her claws more than usual so they wouldn’t get in the way. She’d wondered why John’s left paw had shorter claws than his right; now she knew.

The light was situated in such a way that she could see John’s space, and the spaces of the other performers, with clarity, but most of the stage was shadows. She watched his dexterous fingers dance on the strings with the same surety playing in his voice, divided between glee at the scene and jealousy of his careless spontaneity.The rest of the pub was dark, too dark to make out enough detail to describe it later – provided she _remembered_ tonight enough to try – but the feel of it was bright. _Happy._ She had a feeling she’d be coming back, with or without John, but she wouldn’t try to fool herself again: he made things special.

_Dangerdangerdanger._

She threw back the rest of her glass and ignored her carefully learned internal signals. They could fuck off too. The rest of their last bottle tasted of home, and she smiled for no reason as warmth spread, spread, spread across her muzzle.

_“For I fell to the ground and I couldn’t get up_

_After drinking a quart of old Johnny Jump Up!”_

As Ruth and most of the other patrons applauded, John gave a bow, almost tipping over in the process. That suited him, odd talent followed almost immediately by something ridiculous. There was supposed to be something here, a negative thing, but she couldn’t remember. She didn’t really care. John had given some cash to the bartender and was returning to her side and the performers were filing back onto the stage now that they’d had their requisite beer break.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else,” he suggested, tugging gently on her paw.

Ruth shrugged, gathered her purse, and allowed him to guide her – his paw on her lower back again, that spark again, his scent again – out of the pub. When it wasn’t so loud, she asked him, “When did you learn to play the banjo?”

“I didn’t,” he said, a naughty grin on his muzzle. “Tell de trut, et’s de only song I know.”

Dimly, she understood that John wasn’t safe yet. But she didn’t care for safe. John was _free,_ and after years of holding herself in so rigidly and carefully, she yearned for that freedom, whatever else it came attached to.

* * *

Auntie Jaelle had always said hangovers were for idiots. Clearly Ruth had turned into one sometime between running from her family and the morning she awoke in John’s bed. Through her pulsing headache, she was starkly reminded of that first night, when she’d awoken in her own bed. He was on a couch again, but this time, it was his own. His curl was tight, his tail almost brushing his own nose, and he was still fast asleep, the steady breaths moving his upper body in an enticing rhythm. She wanted to drape herself over him and let him breathe her to sleep again.

(Silly little Ruth Aspen, writing his name in her mouth.)

Ruth couldn’t remember much of anything after leaving the pub, but she didn’t think she’d done something to embarrass herself. It was second nature to keep herself in, so much so that being honest _wasn’t_ easier when intoxicated. It was harder. The alcohol confused her instincts, made her crave things that were bad for her while reinforcing the wall between herself and the rest of the world. She couldn’t –

Honestly, she just _couldn’t,_ and it was no wonder John didn’t want to sleep with her. Even stumbling, stuttering drunk she couldn’t let loose.

She made the bed quietly and tip-toed past the couch, looking for her purse. One of them had hung it from the coat tree. She wanted to leave without telling him, to escape the uncomfortable question of whether she had _imagined_ his attraction because she _wanted_ him to want her, but her eyes lingered on him anyway, on his dark nose and the way a single fang poked out of his sleep-smile. It wasn’t _fair._

Her paw was on the doorknob before she realized she’d moved, but the hinge on John’s door squeaked when she opened it, and it was enough to rouse him. She heard his breaths speed up and the couch squeak as he un-curled. There was enough time to leave. She could slip out during the blank space between asleep and awake. Instead, she closed the door and leaned against it, watching him stretch and scratch like every other fox in the morning. It was almost funny, how he could act utterly typical and still carve out a special space for himself in her brain, a shining soft thing in a world of grays and sharp objects.

“Morning, Ruth,” he said, voice straining with his second stretch. “Sleep well?”

“As well as possible after drinking that much,” she confirmed. “I was about to go out and get coffees from Jimmy’s around the corner.”

He laughed. “I’ve got coffee here! The pot is new and everything.”

“...Right. I’ll...make us some coffee instead.”

Of course she hadn’t forgotten about his coffee pot, but the pretty lie had been perfect for explaining why she’d tried to sneak out. She didn’t owe him an explanation; she didn’t owe him anything. So _why_ did she feel like she did? Why did she feel – what was this? Guilt? Why did she feel bad about trying to sneak out?

“Oh, let me. It’s my favorite part of the morning,” he countered, which only made her feel worse, but what could she say?

She lowered her lashes with a small, measured smile. “Of course. I’ll get your blanket.”

“Please don’t. I don’t fold that one, just throw it over the foot of the bed. Gives the place a little character, don’t you think?”

“Uh…”

“You don’t have to be kind.” He shrugged his shoulders and licked his teeth before adding, “It’s a lazy habit that I happen to like. Will you want more than one cup?”

“Will more than one cup make this headache go away?”

“Probably not, but it’ll taste good.”

“Then…” She stepped carefully and sat on his couch, unsurprised but somehow still disappointed that the spot where he’d slept was no longer warm. “I’ll have whatever you’d like to give me.”

“Dangerous words,” he commented as he retrieved a hemp sack from his cupboard. It was full of already-ground coffee beans. She looked down at her paws, trying to figure out what _that_ had meant, while he noisily started their coffee.

_Dangerdangerdanger._

Someone giggled in the hallway and Ruth heard a recognizable wet smacking sound. A neighbor had evidently had a good time the previous night. It made her uncomfortably aware of the things she couldn’t tell John. Feelings were not her forte. She wasn’t sure how it worked. Was it acceptable to have certain attachments to someone she _also_ wanted to consider a friend? If she tried to seduce him, would that count as a con, and if so, would that be _wrong?_ This was unfamiliar territory that she had, thus far, purposely avoided. If John wasn’t a mark, but she still wanted something from him, how could she get it without making him feel cheap and used?

“Your head must be killing you. I’ve never seen such a scowl,” he told her, giving her a mug and sitting next to her. “Will you be sick?”

She gracelessly avoided the subject with a simple “Thanks for the coffee” and a long sip of the hot beverage. It burned her tongue a little, but that was better than having her mouth free to tell him what she was thinking.

“You’re welcome, Ruth Aspen.”

 _I want to know you fully._ He hadn’t denied her when she’d told him she was falling for him, though he’d had plenty of opportunities to do so. It was so much easier to read mammals when she had no personal stake in the relationship. Emotional connection ruined every con – no, this _wasn’t a con –_ she hated the questions running her mind at double time. Her profession required a certain amount of surety. A smarter vixen would run.

“There’s something about you,” she offered. A piece of her mind.

“Meaning what?”

“You – I enjoy you, John. That doesn’t happen to me. Are you doing this on purpose?”

He placed his paw carefully over hers, fingers brushing against her mug. She looked at him, took in his serious expression, and sat still, forcing down her instinct to get away. “Absolutely. I enjoy you; why wouldn’t I try to encourage you to enjoy me?”

She allowed his paw to stay even though she wanted to withdraw. “You enjoy weird things. I used you.”

“Oh, are you still on about that?” He laughed. It was light. Not happy, exactly, but not the kind of cynical laugh she would have expected. “I’m not upset, you know. Nobody’s perfect.”

“You are,” she blurted, and then she felt stupid.

“I wouldn’t even know where to _begin_ to tell you about the mistakes I’ve made.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re 23. That’s hardly enough time to make serious mistakes.”

“And 25 is?” John leaned over and put his coffee mug on the floor before turning to better face Ruth. She could feel his warmth and his breath and hers caught in her chest for a moment. “We’re still kits, more or less. We’re going to live for a long time, provided we don’t step in front of a bus or something. We are _far_ too young to dwell on what’s already been forgiven. Do you really want to live the rest of your life trapped in your head?”

“Do _you_ want to live the rest of your life dangerously,” she shot back.

“I want…” He grinned. “Of course I want to live the rest of my life dangerously. Taking risks is the only way to get what we dream of, and I have a very particular dream. A fantasy. I want to kiss your sweet neck, Ruth Aspen. I want to feel your teeth in my shoulder. And now that we’re not drunk and silly, I’m asking.”

“And what if I say no,” she asked, even though she wanted to say yes. There was a shake in her voice that she masked with a light cough and another sip of her coffee.

He cocked his head to the side. “Then I don’t get what I want, of course. That happens. I’ll deal with it.”

 _Dangerdangerdanger,_ she thought, but she put her own mug to the side anyway. There was something off about John – there had to be, _no one_ was that perfect – but it didn’t have to matter. It could be a worry for elsewhere, for another time, when she could be alone and put together pieces of the puzzle that was John Wilde.

“I want you,” she confessed, and leaned forward.

The feel of his lips and tongue at her pulse point, and moving in a diagonal line to the hollow of her throat, was a unique thrill, because this time, she wanted it. Not for monetary gain, but for the simple pleasure of it. The gentle pressure of his claws running through the fur on her sides was a song in the skin underneath. When he guided her to lie back against the cushions she allowed it – _welcomed_ it with an arch of her back and a gasp, a _real_ one, as he sucked on a tender spot. His scent filled her nose and her space, his murmurs of affection set her heart racing, and the fingers he’d used to pluck the banjo the night previous plucked at her just as clumsily, just as prettily, and then just as expertly.

A jumbled rush of time later, when Ruth splayed boneless against the armrest and John had a charming little mess inside his pants, she remembered the other thing he’d asked for and scraped at his shoulder with her sharpest fang. She stored his groan with her other favorite John noises: his laugh, his drinking song, and his fervent whisper, _Ruth Aspen, Ruth Aspen, Ruth Aspen._

* * *

Ten hours later, Ruth was in a church. It was one of those new ones, a non-denominational gathering place located in the middle of the Savanna. Rich mammal territory. She’d spent the last couple of weeks integrating, taking advantage of the progressivist tendency to avoid speciesism – if only superficially – and pretending not to notice that in several cases, the acceptance was tinged with wariness. Florence Ink was a lost soul, a single mother with a sick kit and a stingy insurance company. Well-off enough to keep her little Michael a boarding school in River Valley, but poor enough to be unable to afford the so-called experimental treatments he would need to keep him alive past 18 years of age.

This was an old con she’d helped pull off in her teens, although 15-year-old Ruth had played the sick kit. They’d been in San Clawmente at the time, and Ruth had been more interested in the beach than the con, but she’d watched carefully as Auntie Jaelle transformed into her version of Florence Ink, a vixen named Kit Castleberry. The differences between an alias and a real mammal were subtle; flaws were carefully constructed, blended nicely with a carefully constructed personality, and incorporated to make the persona believable. Ruth had her own ways of moving when she was playing herself, but Florence had her own style. She was slower to move, for one thing. Her words were lower in pitch and formed with a wider mouth, over-pronounced like a choral singer might do, and she was a bit hard of hearing. If other members of the loose congregation gossiped behind her back, of _course_ she couldn’t possibly know.

“Florence” clung to the church like a lifeline, wearing sadness like a perfume, desperate for support or at least connection. She was terrified to lose her child and she fit the demographic, more or less, though her species put some of the churchgoers on edge. In Ruth’s experience, these kinds of progressivists were the ones who were most generous with their money; they felt bad for being speciesist, and made up for it in gestures and hollow compliments. Prejudice was inconvenient, but it did have its uses, so long as you knew how to work them to your advantage.

“I was thinking,” said Mary, a dik-dik in a smart pantsuit, around the mouth of a styrofoam coffee cup. She worked in real estate with her husband, and they took vacations overseas with their two children every year. Ruth despised her, but Florence hung onto her every word. “Why don’t you hold a fundraiser for Michael? I’m sure we can get plenty of donors on board. With the right plan, we could raise a good chunk of what you need.”

“I...I couldn’t,” said Ruth, but this was _precisely_ the angle she’d wanted. It was why she had targeted Mary in the first place. Cons like this didn’t always work, but when they did, they were fairly profitable. Fundraisers dealt almost exclusively in cash instead of checks, there was no way for a non-businessmammal to run a credit card, and everybody liked donating to what appeared to be a good cause. These particular mammals were affluent enough to throw money around but not _rich_ enough to be miserly with it, and most importantly, they had friends who were the same. Auntie Jaelle had called these fluff jobs; they were low-effort jobs that relied on the good will of mammals who were self-aware enough to know that they thought too highly of themselves.

“No, Florence, I’ll help you with it. Your child – Michael’s really cute, and nobody deserves to die so young. Look, we all...this is the kind of thing we do. Unity isn’t about worship, it’s about service to fellow mammals. You’re new, but you _are_ one of us. If we can’t even help one of our own, how are we supposed to commit to service elsewhere?”

Ruth’s photo of Michael was a photo of a young cousin who wasn’t so young anymore. When she’d still been family, Ruth had taken him to a thrift store and he’d tried on someone’s school uniform. They’d made fun of kits who did stupid things like go to school and join clubs and live in a house that didn’t move. Years ago, Ruth had believed there was no better way to live. Cousin Nicholas was the only cousin who’d wanted to stay in contact – her favorite cousin, as she’d been his favorite – but leaving was serious business. According to Uncle Peter, there was no Ruth Aspen, and there never had been.

“I would appreciate that, I suppose,” Ruth told Mary, toying with her own cup. She wasn’t going to drink it at six in the evening, even on a Friday, but she could at least fit in with the others. Most of them were clustered around Andrew, a community organizer in charge of church meetings. They were arguing about whether or not this was a good venue for NA meetings. Although Florence couldn’t hear the conversation, Ruth had picked up that most of them were against it.

How _typical._ They wanted to serve, so long as those they served didn’t clutter up their pretty house. You could find hypocrites everywhere, but especially among the wealthy.

“Here’s my card. Feel free to call me sometime next week, and I’ll make inquiries in the meantime. I think Amy’s sisters own a bakery and Luke’s got a church network.”

Ruth looked at her paws bashfully. “I don’t know what to say. You’re being so kind.”

Mary patted her on the shoulder. “You’ve been kind to us too, honey. I heard what you did for Andy’s son.”

“It’s like you said,” Ruth answered, “nobody deserves to die so young.”

(And getting a teen into rehab wasn’t hard if you already had a contact on the inside willing to testify that you’d been friends for 8 years. That favor was used up now, but the returns would be worth the loss.)

She escaped the building with the minimum pleasantries, expecting to return to her apartment in District 13, but she caught a scent she’d know anywhere and frowned. What was he doing this far away from his apartment and workplace? She knew everything about John’s schedule; Fridays after work he hosted a beginner sewing class at the craft store, spending so long with his students there that she had never lingered to the end. This was a deviation from his pattern, a kink in the wire. Was she wrong about the scent? No, that was definitely John, walking with his paws in his pockets, shoulders squared and something like swagger in his stride. She’d never seen him look so cocky. As primal as he looked, it was a nice match for his appearance, but it was a jarring change.

Ruth followed him at a sedate pace, hanging back enough to keep him from noticing her but never letting him out of her sight. He led her around a corner before he ducked into a smaller door cut into the larger door of a building made for much bigger mammals than they. She waited, impatiently, for one and a half minutes to pass, before she followed him inside to see –

 _oh._ She’d wondered what his dark secret was, but she hadn’t considered what she might be faced with once she found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that annoy me the most in fanfiction is the glamorization of the confidence business. It sucks. It sucks to always be one mistake away from homelessness and it sucks to try to explain to renters (if you bother with them) that your income is tooooootally legit. It sucks that you can’t get close to people. It sucks that you can’t trust anyone. Being that elusive loner? Not fun and not something to romanticize. It hurts to watch everybody else scurry around making beautiful connections and know you can never _really_ be part of that, because you have to profit off of every “connection” you make. When people think of grifters they think of characters like Sophie Devereaux from Leverage, but it’s not really like that. It’s just, you know, when you have zero other skills and you’re early-20s with no work history and you don’t know your own social security number and you need to eat, you fall back on what you know you can do.


	4. Swell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruth and John discuss the consequences of keeping secrets from each other, go on a date, get paid for a dishonest day’s hard work, and talk about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit naughty at the end of this chapter, but nothing you wouldn’t find in a PG-13 movie. I still feel comfortable leaving this rated T, but if anybody thinks it should be changed, let me know.

The air was thick with the stink of exertion and cheap smokes, a scent Ruth was not unfamiliar with, but not one she would have associated with John. He was coffee and paper, maybe alcohol on the occasions that they drank together. He was  _ clean.  _ The cheers of onlookers were harsh on her ears, a specific kind of noisiness she’d have expected him to purposely avoid. But there he was, filing down the claws on his left paw, a smile reminiscent of a great white shark on his muzzle. 

This setup was very obviously not meant to be permanent, but that wasn’t a surprise. This building was still technically under construction but not actively being worked on – a somewhat common occurrence in the still-developing outskirts of the Savanna – so it was safe as a one-time venue, but not as a regular meeting place. 

Ruth watched as John lingered on the fringe of the crowd, not talking to anyone but not being standoffish either. He seemed to just not exist to these mammals, which made this the most fox-like thing she’d ever seen him do. It was...kind of attractive. Because of the passive way he acted, the way he seemed to shrug off the mistreatment and lived with his heart on his sleeve, he didn’t always seem like a  _ real  _ fox, but she wasn’t attracted to other species unless she could get something out of them. Until John, she hadn’t been sure she could be attracted to anyone at all. His head twitched toward her, but she ducked behind a rhino’s leg to avoid John’s notice. She wanted to see this.

Presently, as a koala got dragged out and a raccoon trudged after, dripping blood from his mouth, the announcer introduced the next round: a wolf called Clawson and a fox called Wilde.  _ This was it.  _ Whatever John did next, it would tell her far more about him than whatever explanation he gave her her later.

What he did next was  _ dance.  _ Inside the wooden ring, John displayed absolute confidence. It reminded her of his song in the pub and the look she’d seen in on his face earlier that day, when he’d rutted against her on the couch and coaxed her to climax. He had mastery over his own body. She’d known that from the very beginning, but somehow, it hadn’t been an important detail. How had she not accounted for it?

The wolf threw the first punch, which did not connect. Her fox was  _ fast,  _ too, and his answering jump-kick to the wolf’s sternum was brutal, so unlike the things she’d seen in his personal life. Ruth watched with wide-eyed confusion as he let Clawson beat the crap out of him, landing blows on his stomach and shoulders, only blocking a few of the nastier hits and dodging all of the kicks –

Oh. It wasn’t so unlike him after all, was it? John seemed to see some kind of change in Clawson because he suddenly went on the offensive, using his left paw to land closed-fisted blows and his right paw to deliver open-pawed slices with his claws. Nothing was off-limits; joints, eyes, and other sensitive areas were targeted as they came in range. John protected his face and neck from answering attacks, but otherwise…

(Was this why he always wore long sleeves?)

Her fox steadied himself, jumped higher than she’d ever seen anyone jump, and wrapped himself around the wolf’s shoulders before righting himself, squeezing Clawson’s neck with his legs, and punching downward with his left paw. All six of his hits connected with the wolf’s muzzle and the seventh got Clawson between the eyes. He collapsed to the floor and John stood, grin manic and eyes gleaming, somehow the winner of the match.

Ruth found herself cheering along with the crowd as the wolf was carried out, but beyond the energy of the crowd, her mind was going double-time. Of all the secrets John could have had, did he really think this was something she wouldn’t understand? Prizefighting wasn’t even illegal, technically, although getting arena permits was almost impossible, and it wasn’t as though Ruth had proven to be a law-abiding citizen herself. Did he really think she’d be scared by this?

Then again, he was such a gentle mammal, even in this society that was as harsh on a bookseller as it was on a con artist, simply because they were both foxes. It stood to reason that the very same rage and spite that Ruth channeled into enchanting her (mostly prey) marks would have to go  _ somewhere,  _ and...maybe it was frightening, a little. Not because it changed him, but because now she knew how ugly he could be. She didn’t know him well enough to say she could predict his future; was this something he did as a hobby, or did he  _ need  _ it? Would she someday feel his claws in her face, his paws wrapped around her throat?

(Did he feel the same way about what she did for a living? Did he worry that one day she’d smile, say “just joking,” and leave him heartbroken? For that matter...if he did, was he wrong to think so?)

The crowd shifted as a pair of moose entered the ring. This was one fight she didn’t care to watch. Moose were, in a word, terrifying. Their antlers were longer than she was tall, their hooves were wide and so very hard, and these ones were so strong that they had the beginning of  _ humps,  _ like their ancestors. One careless swing of an arm and they could kill a fox accidentally. Instead of watching two oversized males wale on each other, she took advantage of the openings left by the legs and swishing tails of mammals larger than she, hoping nobody would step backward and ruin her feet. If she’d watched correctly, John would be getting patched up at the makeshift med station.

And there he was, lounging against the wall, laughing at something that the wolf – looking more lively than he had just moments before – had said, or was saying. John went still for a moment and then looked straight at her, presumably because he’d caught her scent. His face went funny, as though he wasn’t sure whether he should smile or not, and Ruth clasped her paws behind her back instead of crossing her arms over her chest. She didn’t have the right to judge him for keeping secrets.

“What...what did you do to your  _ fur,”  _ he squawked.

Ruth ran a claw along the braiding that was fashionable amongst the upper middle class. Most mammals didn’t bother styling their fur; hiring a stylist was seen as an expensive waste of time. That was precisely why she’d learned the single-day techniques. The target demographic for her current job was “wealthy enough to afford a stylist, but not wealthy enough to not care about presentation.” The intricate design was also a layer of protection for this alias; without the temporary braids and her most fashionable clothing, Ruth was just another fox off the street. 

“What did you do to your  _ arm,”  _ she retorted, gesturing to the gash the wolf had made. It didn’t look deep enough for stitches, but it was nasty enough that he’d have to keep it bandaged for a while.

“I. I. Well, I…”

“Nat neally sa cocky wit ya gal around, ay, Wilde,” said Clawson, holding a pack of ice to his nose where John had punched him. 

“Uh,” John replied, following in the grand tradition of stumbling over his own vanity.

“...It was a good fight,” she allowed after a beat of awkward silence. 

“Thanks?” He looked at Clawson, at the medic, and then back at Ruth, before holding out his arm to be bandaged. “You look...I can’t tell how you look.”

“I look like a vixen presented with a piece to a confounding puzzle, and I think it’s high time we talked, John.”

A great  _ thud  _ sounded behind her, obviously one or both of the moose, and John flinched. “I think you’re right. It’s about to get crowded in here, and I only signed up for the one round anyway. I’ve got to collect my prize, but if I’m done here…?”

“Go ahead,” said the medic, “but you, Frank, you stay right where you are.”

Ruth followed her fox toward a pop-up kiosk and wondered what was happening. She’d always been out of her element with John, but this was something new. Whether it was unwanted was something she would have to figure out  _ with him,  _ and not knowing what might come next was the most frightening thing of all. All of her predictions for him had been based on observed information. If she had already missed such a big piece of him, what else was she missing?

_ Hypocrite,  _ she thought to herself, and resolved to see this through, no matter where he took her.

* * *

He didn’t take her far. They ended up at Jumbeaux’s, an ice cream café run by an elderly elephant whose hearing was worse than Florence Ink’s. An impressive feat for an elephant. His teenaged son, Jerry Jr., refused to wait their table and tended to say nasty things about predators in general as long as his father wasn’t in the room, but the ice cream was good and several small mammals could split a large cup. Ruth and John split a small one and sat facing each other, unsure of what to say next.

“I wasn’t going to try to keep this from you,” he said suddenly, looking painfully sincere. He reached forward, as if to take her paw, but retracted his before she could decide if she would allow it. “I was going to tell you. But then you said I was  _ perfect,  _ and I wanted to live up to your expectations – so I said I’d do this last one, just one round to end things properly – but I can’t fool myself in front of you, I know it’s always my last one.”

“Your last one  _ what?” _

He snorted and looked down. “Everything. My last fight, my last drink, my last try at getting my business off the ground, my last chocolate soda.”

She sat back and considered him. He looked repentant and frustrated at the same time, apology in his face and defiance in the lines of his body. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I don’t have room for judgment, John. I lied to you. I’m probably still lying to you, because I lie to everybody so much that whatever I say is the absolute truth when I say it. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can be one way in front of me, and then go and tear apart a mammal almost twice your size when you should be teaching kits to sew. You just seemed so…”

“Perfect,” he finished sardonically with a shrug. “I’m a mammal, same as you, with vices and needs. Bad habits. An inability to express, or even  _ feel,  _ the anger I know is there. I do what makes me happy, and – as you’ve seen – it’s not always a good thing. I sell books and I sew and I’m trying to court you, which I’d consider good things, but I also drink too much and I fight for money and I do stupid things like jumping off cliffs.”

“Jumping off  _ cliffs!?” _

“Into water,” he clarified, “but the thrill of it is the same. That feeling of being completely at the mercy of the moment. It makes me feel free. It makes me feel  _ alive. _ Even the bad parts of life seem so inconsequential when you’re flying through the air waiting to hit the surface...or you’ve got someone’s claws at your throat and you’re not sure you can turn the tables. I love that feeling.”

She tried to remain expressionless while she digested his words. He wasn’t necessarily  _ wrong.  _ She knew what it felt like to crave freedom. She knew what it felt like to want to be someone else for a while. Hell, she made her living off of it. His choreographed brutality was, in a sense, his Ciara Byrne. But where Ruth used her aliases to control others, he used his alternate persona to – what? Lose control? What kind of crazy mammal used that to feel alive?

Hesitantly, she asked, “Do you take drugs?”

“No. I tried it, in high school, but it wasn’t the same. When you’re high, it’s not only an artificial happiness, but it removes the control you have over your own body. I’d say I’m more of a hedonist than an addict, but you’re not wrong to ask.”

He took a large bite of ice cream and grinned at her, mouth closed, savoring the flavor. Somehow, he managed to look pleased with himself even with a gob full of flavored sugar and frozen coconut milk. Maybe it wasn’t a puzzle; maybe he  _ was  _ pleased with himself. Maybe Ruth read too much into everything, projected her own logic and motives onto others even when they had completely different systems in place. Ruth purposely dealt with mammals who were either dishonest or self-involved, or both, because they were the easiest to manipulate. They thought like she did. If you dug far enough, you could always find a layer of well-ignored fragility, of carefully-cloaked self-loathing, which was exploitable. She couldn’t think like John because she’d never dealt with anybody like him, and for a good reason. Ruth was a product of her upbringing, so much so that she’d thought mammals like her fox – yes,  _ hers,  _ that was a pleasant thought – were a myth. Pretty bedtime stories.

But...hadn’t she left for precisely this opportunity? Hadn’t the intended goal been to learn to  _ live?  _ It hadn’t turned out that way; it was hard to get a real job with no prior experience or even a high school diploma, and she couldn’t allow anyone to look too closely because Ruth Aspen’s identity was false, stolen off a dead teenager like all of her cousins’ identities were. Conning mammals out of their money was Ruth’s only skillset, and she was good at it, but she’d originally meant to leave all of that behind. She’d been  _ so angry  _ at the matriarch for raising them to embrace the stereotypes that didn’t have to be true after all. For teaching them to be exactly the kind of mammal that got foxes such a bad name. There were other fox families who didn’t live like that. There were other fox families who weren’t taken in by someone else’s feel-good scam while pretending to be the superior confidence artists. Ruth had felt cheated, out of a life, out of a childhood, even though Auntie Jaelle had done the best she could in a time of crisis. She had protected her family, one of the families who’d had to flee from the Great Shepherd movement, the only way she could. And Ruth had run from it in a fit of ungrateful optimism.

If she didn’t consider another point of view, wasn’t all of that – the arguments, being shunned by her own cousins, settling down in a big city she could get lost in – for nothing? Would it not be meaningless if she didn’t give it meaning, with  _ or without  _ John?

“I don’t know how to indulge,” she admitted, trying and failing to maintain a neutral tone. She hated the way her voice shook. “I don’t know how to let go. All the time I’ve known you, there’s been a little warning in the back of my mind, telling me you’re dangerous. That you’re wrong, somehow. But maybe it’s not that you’re dangerous to me; you’re just the kind of mammal capable of altering my world. Changing my mind. It terrifies me. I just didn’t really understand that until now.”

He considered her for a moment and then asked, slowly, “You don’t have much experience being scared, do you?”

“I stay within my comfort zone.”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“What.”

“Really, close them.”

She laughed lightly. “We’re in public, John.”

“See, that’s exactly it, Ruth! You can’t even close your eyes when you’re out with someone you like. Nobody’s going to hurt you here.” His eyes widened in realization and he added, “Or recognize you. You’re safe here, you know. Anonymous. And if anyone tries to grab you during the  _ ten seconds  _ you’ve got your eyes closed, I’ll bite ‘em.”

It was even harder to close her eyes once he’d urged her, as though discussing the question had made the task more dangerous. She was  _ thinking  _ about it. It was so  _ stupid,  _ too; just a long blink, nothing to be afraid of. She felt like she was eleven years old again, learning how to be touched after too long without physical contact. She took a deep breath, counted to three –

(and counted to three again)

(and again)

– and closed her eyes tightly, feeling ridiculous. There was nothing to be scared of in the first place. She closed her eyes all the time. Nobody was going to walk up behind her, or steal her purse, or put their paws on her shoulders, or  _ anything.  _ This was only her brain kinking itself, not any rational anxiety. She was fine. She was fine.

Ruth opened her eyes to the sight of John with his paw across his muzzle, hiding his mouth but not the amused crinkle of his eyes. She tried to snarl, but for some reason, with her eyes open everything seemed less intense, and she couldn’t quite manage it. “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing! I would  _ never.” _

“Right. Just like I wouldn’t laugh if you were bleeding through your shirtsleeve,” she shot back, looking pointedly at his left arm. He yipped, alarmed, and checked his own arm for blood that wasn’t really there. His concern for his clothing  _ did  _ make her laugh, though, and he let his own laughter loose. 

“I deserved that one.” He leaned his head on his paw, gesturing at her with his spoon. “Want to try again? This time I’ll feed you ice cream.”

“I am  _ perfectly  _ capable of feeding myself.”

“Ah, but it’s not a real date if I can’t do anything romantic for you.”

She blinked. “This is a date?”

His answering shrug seemed relaxed enough, but his frown said otherwise as he asked, “Did you not want it to be?”

“In my experience, dates have a very specific purpose,” she told him, “and I’m not sure how normal ones are supposed to go. But I look like a yuppie and you look like you just got mugged in a back alley somewhere.”

“Are you saying a classy lady like you would never go with a sorry sack of bruises like me?” 

She couldn’t help it; she snorted, and then laughter – real laughter, not the measured giggles she used on her marks, not the reserved chuckles that occasionally escaped, but a true show of amusement – burst from her chest and throat. John’s confused look only made her laugh harder. “What’s so funny?”

“You – you called me  _ classy,”  _ she replied, holding a paw over her chest. It hurt to laugh so freely. “John, I’m the definition of trailer trash. The only non-mobile home I can remember having is the apartment I live in now, which I’ve only had for a  _ year.  _ Florence looks classy, with her braids and her stupid little pantsuit, but I smell like cigarettes and unwashed mammal. At least you have a  _ job.” _

At first, the horrified look on his face concerned her, but then he opened his mouth. “You’re calling yourself  _ Florence?  _ Oh, God, that’s my  _ mother’s  _ name!”

“You are, of course, perfectly welcome to feed me ice cream if you call me Florence for the rest of the evening,” she bargained.

“Right, because I’d just  _ love  _ to go on a date with my mother,” he replied darkly. “No, thank you. I’ll find some other way to woo you.”

“Oh, John. You already have.” 

She meant it. They probably hadn’t talked enough. His lack of restraint worried her still, and she suspected that he didn’t know the scope of her profession. She  _ did  _ worry about him getting hurt or doing something too dangerous, leaving her for the sake of some new thrill, and she wasn’t sure she could say she was committed to trying him out if half her best games relied on seducing other males. But his smile was wide and sweet, and the ice cream was melting, and  _ this _ wasn’t a con. She had time.  _ They  _ had time. The lack of expectations was new and – all right, vaguely worrying, but workable. If John really wanted to court her, he wasn’t going anywhere, and if he didn’t, their interactions didn’t matter.

* * *

It seemed as if no time had passed, but it was three weeks later when Florence Ink attended the charity function for little Michael Ink with her new beau, Oliver Evergreen, who had shiny black fur and an easy, welcoming smile. He could not, of course, take off his large dark glasses, because he was  _ blind,  _ but he looked sharp in a perfectly-tailored suit. His tie, incidentally, matched her lovely marbled, mawsitsit-esque cocktail dress that made her hips look nice and plump, just as a well-fed vixen’s hips should be.

(They’d gotten their clothes made by a local sartor, a red fox named John Wilde, and wasn’t his stitching just absolutely perfect?)

The sweet treats sold out quickly and the more the champagne flowed, the more went into the drawing. Emilie’s paintings had already sold for a thousand per canvas. Florence was polite and adequately humiliated by the attention and the need for help, but Ruth was  _ delighted.  _ This was only her world insofar as she’d established a temporary place in it, but that was her gift, and she had no regrets.

Oliver held onto her arm and quietly whispered commentary into her ear, mostly details about who was wearing what and how he could make it prettier or more comfortable. A blind date was an easy way to keep a friendly distance between herself and the rest of the partygoers, but she’d have managed it anyway; she was a  _ fox.  _ The only reason she’d been so successful was predictable progressivist guilt. Having John there to share in her triumph was simply an added pleasure. If he wanted to court her, this was his world too, as much as he wanted to involve himself.

“Oh, Mary, I don’t know how to thank you,” Ruth said much,  _ much  _ later, when the dik-dik gave her a manilla envelope. She felt like a spy, or perhaps just a common thief. She hadn’t kept track of how much they’d made, and she knew some of it had gone to cover the costs of everything that hadn’t been donated, but it was certainly more money than she’d ever handled herself.

“Don’t thank me, dear, it was our pleasure,” Mary replied through a bright, fixed smile. “I only wish we could have done more. I don’t think this will even cover half.”

“It’s more than I had before.” She turned up the obsequiousness, twisting her smile into something self-deprecating. “I know,  _ your pleasure,  _ but still...thank you. It’s not easy to find kind mammals these days, not when...uh, yes. Thank you.”

Ruth closed her mouth carefully and obviously hid her claws, hammering the point home.  _ Not when you’re a fox.  _ It was a cheap trick, but for some reason, it almost always worked on this particular target group. Mary patted Ruth’s arm quickly. “We’ll see you on Sunday?”

“Right on time,” Ruth lied.

They left after a quick, tidy tear-down. Once Ruth undid her braids, John washed the temporary dye out of his fur, and they both hid away their dramatic accessories, they’d look like average red foxes, just two nobodies from District 13. She felt the thrill of winning, the satisfaction of having lined up all of the dominoes just right to form the desired pattern. With John’s paw in hers, she felt like she could fly. It was more than a thrill. It was…

“I think I’m happy,” she marveled, squeezing his paw.

“Yeah? Good,” he replied, “because I can’t remember being happier than this. And wow! That was...I didn’t even recognize you!  _ Florence Ink  _ and  _ Oliver Evergreen.  _ We were rich. You were amazing. I was  _ blind!  _ And they just...gave you what you wanted! And you’ve been doing this since you were a kit?”

“In one form or another. Until I was about twenty, mostly I was a prop, or a decoy.”

“For an adult?”

“For my auntie,” she acknowledged. In the warmth of another finished job and including John in her intimate moment, thinking about the family she no longer had wasn’t bad. It didn’t hurt. “She was a mean old witch, but she loved us. She took care of us when nobody else would. I don’t know if she was my real auntie or not – my parents gave me to her, so I think she was, but they could have just been desperate. It was during the Shepherd’s purge in the late 60’s. She taught us, me and my cousins, how to make mammals think what we wanted them to think, and do what we wanted them to do. She taught us all the old cons, the classics, how to think in patterns and use context clues to fit in anywhere for enough time to get something valuable out of it. I was so surprised to find out that most fox families didn’t live like that at all.”

“No,” John said quietly, “most of us just...try and get by. I came here about twelve years ago, with my mother. We managed to hide from the Movement for a while, but it wasn’t a viable strategy long term. We were, I think, refugees, but we made a decent life.”

“You grew up into a good tod, John.”

“And you grew up into something magnificent.” He brought the back of her paw to his lips and kissed it gently. “Maybe not  _ good,  _ but that’s not a requirement, especially when you’re a fox. They hate us anyway.”

“That’s what my auntie said. But it’s also why I left the family. I thought there must be more to life than being what they wanted us to be. I didn’t want to be the only one in the family who didn’t believe in their god or speak their language; I didn’t want to be the outsider among outsiders. I didn’t want to be silly little Ruth Aspen anymore. But until I met you, I’d thought maybe it was a mistake, maybe there  _ was  _ nothing more. You’re not perfect, like I thought, but you’re real. That’s better than perfect.”

“You must be the biggest optimist in the world. Or the biggest cynic. I can’t tell, but I want to find out.”

“I’m dangerous,” she said lightly, and it was absolutely true. “I’m a professional liar. I could hurt you, and I might not even mean to. I could break your heart.”

“And I could break your bones, but I don’t see you running,” he countered. “I’ve always been drawn to dangerous things.”

Self-doubt crept in quietly and settled, lightning-fast, before she could fight it off. “Is that why you like me?”

“No!” His tone, and his facial expression, turned to something more bashful. “Maybe a little. It doesn’t put me off, at any rate. I would like you if you somehow magically vowed never to hurt me. But I wouldn’t want you to. I like Ruth Aspen, not...Ruth Aspen’s face.”

“I’ll make you like my face one day,” she teased, and in any other situation she might have kicked herself for sounding so dumb, but he laughed at the joke even though it had been childish.

“Come on,” he said suddenly, tugging on her paw. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s a  _ surprise.” _

She followed him past the district line, watching the moonlight shine on his artificially dark fur, and smiled.

* * *

Most of District 13 was under construction. The plan was to develop another metropolitan area, new office buildings and restaurants and neighborhoods. Lots of predators had taken advantage of the cheap pricing and bought houses in anticipation. Mammals were affectionately calling it Happytown until it received its official designation, and although Ruth didn’t believe it was going to be the paradise from the promotional pamphlets, it was an encouraging thing. More predator-owned businesses could crop up while the getting was good, and in Animalia, if you had money, you had prestige, no matter how your particular society thought your species should be treated.

But for now, it was mostly bare-bones structures and non-landscaped areas. John had brought her through a hole in a fence to the top of a hill. Whoever had made this little nook had left the tall weeds, leaving only a patch of grass surrounded by a circle of dirt and stones. It was the perfect place to hide and watch the stars, which was what John had wanted to do. Climate and temperature control had stalled in the district, so it was inordinately hot; he’d removed his jacket and shirt, leaving his chest bare, and she’d shed her dress, so that she only had to wear her slip. 

Still, the heat didn’t keep her from resting her head on his chest while he grinned up at the sky.

“When I have kits,” he said, running a lazy claw up and down her arm, “I’ll bring them out here and teach them all the stories.”

“What stories?”

“You know, the  _ stories _ – the bear and the kettle? The twins left to die in the forest? The rabbit in the moon?”

“Folktales,” she said neutrally. She’d never put much stock in fiction. It all seemed superfluous when her whole life was based in fictitious dealings.

“Yes, folktales. They’ll learn all the mathematics in school, galaxy rotation and gravitational lensing and whatnot, but life is more than numbers. Everything’s a story. I want them to live in the world – to love it, to breathe it in – I want them to be more than just smart. I want them to be happy. I want them to find joy and hold onto it. You don’t have to believe a story to appreciate it.”

“That’s why you sell books, isn’t it? Because you love them. I knew that, but I didn’t  _ know  _ it...huh. And you really do want kits too, don’t you?”

“Well, not  _ today.”  _ He squeezed her shoulder. “I have to supplement my income by beating on other mean bastards, and I haven’t gotten a commission in  _ weeks.  _ Plus...when I do have them...I want them with the right vixen. And I have no idea if you even want them.”

“I don’t.”

“Not  _ ever?” _

She sighed. “I’m not very maternal. Some vixens see kits and have an urge to make their own. I see kits and want to run away. They’re small. And breakable. And they require constant care, and – well, what if I dropped one? It could  _ die.  _ And they stink, and make messes, and we’re one of the species who’ve evolved past having litters, so I’d have to carry it around for nine  _ months.  _ Months!”

“You might fall in love with it,” he said, and she appreciated that he didn’t sound urgent. She could tell when someone was selling something, and he seemed to just be tossing around ideas.

“I might hate it,” she returned, “and it sounds like a bad idea to risk a kit’s life and safety on  _ mights  _ and  _ maybes.” _

“You’re practical. I can admire that.” He hummed. “We balance each other out, Ruth. It’s nice to know you’ll reel me in if I get stupid.”

“And you’ll remind me that there’s joy to be found when I get bitter.”

They were quiet. She watched his fingers tapping on his own belly as he watched the stars. There wasn’t need for talking, but she found herself asking, “Are you upset by the other parts of what I do? The seduction? Or – going forward – would it feel like I’m cheating on you?”

He laughed so quietly it was more like a hiss. “I’m not so insecure as to worry about your  _ marks,  _ and anyway you don’t belong to me and you never will. Even if it gets to the point where you’re mine and I’m yours, that’s just sentiment. I told you I admire your practicality. I don’t think I could do the kinds of things you do, but I don’t think you’d want to stand in a ring and let someone punch you in the face, either. We have our own lives. When they intersect, we have  _ our  _ life. That’s good enough for me.”

She raised an eyebrow, even though he wouldn’t be able to see. “Really?”

“Sweetheart, you probably made more tonight than I make in three months. This is what you do, and you do it well. And you like it. I saw how excited you were when we left the church. Asking you to stop would be like...asking me not to sew anymore. I love that you can take care of yourself. I’ve never been interested in vixens who need to be taken care of. Call it ego or self-indulgence or whatever, but I don’t want to be needed, I want to be wanted.”

“And  _ that,”  _ she said with a snort, “is why you’ve been single for so long. Most vixens despise the idea of needing someone, but society says we should, and most of us just go along with it because it’s easier than being an outlier amongst outliers. It’s a good thing we met. I’m not shy about being a vixen.”

“I might have noticed that. Once or twice.”

After another moment of quiet, she asked curiously, “About – seduction, sex, all of that – have you ever?”

He shrugged. She could feel the movement lift her head with his chest. “Once. In school. He was nice enough, but I discovered vixens and he discovered a better cock than mine. It wouldn’t have worked out. Never made love to a female, though.”

_ Made love,  _ she thought, trying not to smile, and then smiling because she didn’t  _ have  _ to hide. He had a funny vernacular. At least this explained why he’d been so hesitant and clumsy on his couch, at least until he’d established a pattern. It was charming. “I’m sure your cock’s just fine. If it helps, I’ve never made love either.”

“Ruth! We just had a whole conversation about this! I thought we weren’t going to lie anymore,” he chided.

“No, I mean...I’ve had sex, obviously, but I’ve never done it with anyone I cared about, and I was never an active participant. All I had to do was lie there, maybe moan a little bit, say their name in the right way.”

“But you...surely you enjoyed it?”

“I didn’t have to. It wasn’t necessary. The kind of males I target are...driven by their own desires. They wanted to get off, and didn’t care if I did.”

“That’s not right at all,” he said, sounding strangely annoyed. “It’s common courtesy. What kind of mammal likes to leave things half-finished, anyway? Oh, that’d itch at me forever.”

“That’s because you’re a perfectionist,” she murmured, running her claws through the fur on his chest. His laugh sent vibrations through her paw and muzzle. “It was a good thing anyway. I didn’t want to get pinned down – lose control under some idiot mark – leave myself vulnerable.”

“No, I don’t imagine you did. I can’t imagine anyone pinning you down like that.”

She hesitated. Breathed. Went for it. “You could.”

“I could  _ not.” _

“You’re the one who likes it so much. Being at the mercy of the moment. I’ve never felt that before. Show me what it’s like, John,” she said, soft, cajoling.

She was flat on her back before she could consider that he might take her challenge, John’s large, strong paws pinning her wrists to the grass. His leg went between her thighs and his muzzle came down, pressing against her pulse point. She sucked in a stuttering breath, a sudden swell of fright warring with an equal swell of desire in her chest. Against her better judgment, she arched up, trying to meet his body with hers.

With a hint of growl in his throat, he asked her, “Are you  _ really  _ sure you want this? I can smell your fear.”

“Then,” she growled back, using her particular skillset to match his tone almost precisely, “you know I still want you.”

He turned his head, resting his muzzle just below her chin. The light pressure against her thyroid cartilage made her feel like wheezing, even though she could breathe just fine. “Ruth,  _ Ruth,  _ I can’t – you are  _ so  _ precious…”

“But not delicate,” she told him sharply, another challenge. In this state of mind, it would probably be enough to rile him up. Sure enough, he let out another growl, moving to nip at her neck. She felt it radiate all the way down into her stomach. “You told me you loved it, having another mammal’s claws at your neck.  _ Show me.” _

It was the stupidest thing she’d said since childhood. She was being reckless, ridiculous,  _ silly little Ruth Aspen  _ with his name in her mouth, on her lips, curlicued in her grey matter. But against all odds, he was  _ right.  _ He shifted to hold both of her wrists with his right paw, just above her head, and pushed his left thumb and forefinger against either side of her throat. It was only enough pressure to give her a taste of what he meant, but it made her feel giddy, and the mild prick of his claws gave it a kick she’d never known could be real.

These were sensations that belonged in Harlequin novels, not real life. And yet.

“I want you,” she said again, rubbing her leg against his in an attempt to rub against the crotch of his trousers, but his kneel was too high and his paw on her wrists kept her from pulling him down. “I want to know you  _ fully,  _ John Wilde.”

His quiet keening made her feel strong. He was holding her down with arms far more muscular than a bookseller should have, and still she had power over him. “I haven’t got…” He panted. “Do you have a condom? Because we don’t want anything bad to happen.”

“I’m on the pill,” she said, holding her mouth so close to his that she could feel her own breath blow back against her lips. “It’ll be all right.”

His right paw gripped her wrists more tightly as his left left her throat and went down to the button of his trousers, and looking into his wide, wild eyes, she was dizzy with lust and fear and thrill and –

  
  


A month and a half later, it was  _ not  _ all right. She comprehended the situation well enough, but her mind spun and spun, stuck on his words,  _ I don’t see any in the near future,  _ and  _ we don’t want anything bad to happen,  _ and  _ can’t remember being happier than this,  _ and  _ not today. _

She threw the box across her bathroom and watched, void of any real emotion, as the brightly-colored cardboard skittered across the tiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1984, Ruth could have used a home pregnancy test that took from 45 minutes to 1 hour to complete, depending on the brand. There were test tubes involved. Ruth threw the box because throwing the tubes would be disgusting.


	5. Crawling on Your Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a courtship, the beginning of a life. What kind is up to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title jacked from [an old song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUgwM1Ky228)
> 
> [Freefall, the Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFsMzmYsLKfPA71ef_lb5x1V6yxhh9wQ4)

Ruth felt like she was walking through molasses as she trudged up to John’s door. She couldn’t keep this from him. He’d probably be angry at her for thinking her suppressant pill would keep them safe, or he might be angry at himself for trusting it. He might decide he didn’t want this thing growing inside of her, and she wouldn’t blame him. Abortion had been indisputably legal for eleven years now, thanks to the valiant efforts of Jane Roe and the Supreme Court, but that...well. Perhaps there was a little Northern Winds in her after all, still, because that seemed like a last resort option. Hardly an option at all, though it  _ should  _ have been her first instinct as a single vixen who valued practicality.

(She would be a terrible mother. If she couldn’t find a father for this little sprog, she’d  _ have  _ to get rid of it one way or another.)

“Ruthie,” John said joyfully, opening his door at her knock, but then his face turned serious. “What’s the matter?”

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside to let her in. She refused to hesitate and hover, instead choosing to sit down on his couch, trying not to think too much about what they’d done on it. “D’you want some coffee?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and once again the weight of the situation hit her. She didn’t know anything about pregnancy, and kits, and...being with someone, not really. 

John’s smile dropped completely and he came close. He knelt before her and placed his paws on her knees, rubbing gently. “That’s not the Ruth I’ve come to know. Even when you don’t know, you know. And I get the feeling this isn’t just about coffee.”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed coffee.” His bewildered expression spurred a babbling session the likes of which she hadn’t had since before Auntie Jaelle had taken her in. “I don’t know anything I’m supposed to have – or not have – it’s not like I’ve ever done this before, I never _wanted_ to. I still don’t think I do want to, but I don’t want to think of the alternatives...and...I don’t know anything about being pregnant, so what if-”

“You’re  _ pregnant,”  _ John asked her, voice pitched so high he sounded like a teenager.

“...Yes.” Saying it out loud for the first time, she felt as though she were about to collapse. “Yes, I’m pregnant.”

He looked...in her own bewilderment, she wasn’t sure how he looked. Anxious, probably. “But I thought you were taking medication?”

“I am. Well, I  _ was.”  _ She blew out a breath and leaned her head back for a moment. All this emotional stuff was exhausting. “There isn’t a canid variety made especially for vixens, but the clinic assured me that the lupine pill would work just as well. I made a mistake trusting that.”

“It’s not a mistake to trust a doctor.”

“I don’t trust  _ anyone,  _ as a rule. It’s my policy to be safer than I’m supposed to be. I was...too impatient, and yes, it was stupid. I’m sorry, John.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For rushing things with you. Now we’ve made this little thing that neither of us wanted.”

“We’ve made…” He bit the inside of his lower lip, an awkward gesture that was sort of endearing. “It’s ours? Truly?”

“You know it’s ours,” she said. She wouldn’t pretend, not about this. He’d accept the kit or he wouldn’t, and she’d decide her course of action depending on his answer.

“I...wow. A real one. A whole baby, right there in your belly.”

She snorted despite the heaviness of the conversation, amused at his childish reaction. “It’s not whole yet, it’s barely a bean. But it’ll grow, if we let it.”

He blinked up at her. “If we let it?”

“Well.” She found herself in the unfamiliar position of losing her words in the face of his question. His light naivete was something she loved about him; it made her feel young and special, a better Ruth Aspen than she’d ever been, but surely he wasn’t unaware of the way these things went? “Raising it together isn’t...a guarantee, if you’d rather…”

She didn’t want to resent him for making her say what she didn’t want to say. God help her, but now that he was asking that question, she realized she wanted this kit, this little piece of John stuck inside her. They were poor and busy and unmarried. She could take care of herself, but her lifestyle didn’t leave room for childcare. Feeding, changing,  _ watching  _ the toddling, delicate little thing – all those mother things she’d never had any interest in. Would he? Was this just another thing she’d have to watch pass her by?

“Ruth,” he said quietly, grasping her paws gently. He’d always looked as wild as his name, but when he touched her, he was the softest mammal she’d ever met. She’d never fear his strong, sure paws. “I know I’m not the ideal. No doubt you have better options. I’m not wealthy, and I’m distractible, and I have more dreams than sense. I won’t blame you if you want to find someone richer and smarter to raise this kit with, but if you’ll have me, I’ll do everything I can to help you take care of it. Anything you want. I’ll love you both till my dying day, I swear it. I don’t have a jewel or a collar or any other offering; only my name to give, but I’ll give it gladly, if it pleases you.”

Her tears were, for once, almost entirely happy. She squeezed his paws hard as she tried to get hold of herself. It proved to be a wasted effort as soon as she opened her mouth to respond through a sob, “You’re so dumb. You’re offering yourself to me, like it’s easy-”

“It’s the easiest thing in the world. For the vixen I love? I’d sell my eyeteeth and my tail! Ruth Aspen, will you accept me as I am?”

“I will,” she promised.

“We’re going to be parents.” He leaned over to kiss her stomach. “Probably bad ones at first, but little Penda will at least get an education to be proud of.”

“I’m sorry,  _ Penda?” _

“Yes. Got to name her something, right? You can choose her middle name.”

“Could be a boy,” Ruth told him, deciding not to humor his name suggestion. 

“Then  _ you  _ can name him, and I’ll choose his middle name.”

Although her chest was still shaking from the roll of emotion (and, possibly, pregnancy hormones – how soon did those kick in, or were they just urban legends?), she managed to roll her eyes. “All right. Nichole, or Nicholas.”

“Boring,” he scoffed.

“Good thing the kit will have  _ you  _ to make its life interesting,” she intoned, trying for disinterest. She couldn’t let go of his paws, though, and she had a feeling her expression was more open than she felt comfortable with.

“I’ll tell her – or him, if you  _ must –  _ all the stories I know, and we’ll make you breakfast on Wednesdays because today’s a Wednesday, and she’ll learn how to dance, and you’ll teach her how to talk mammals into doing what she wants, and I’ll teach her how to talk to them with her fists if that doesn’t work.”

“You’ll teach him to mend, so he never has to worry about spending too much on new clothes,” she continued, gently reminding John to think practically, “and I’ll teach him how to pick pockets just in case, but we’ll both work hard so he never has to.”

“We’ll have to get a house. Right here in Happytown, maybe in the Avenues, so he can grow up with other foxes. And I’ll open up a shop for real, somehow – I won’t stop trying until I’ve gotten a loan for John Wilde’s Suitopia.”

“Veto,” she cried, trying and failing not to laugh. “You can  _ not  _ name your shop that. I won’t be married to someone who publicizes his bad sense of humor.”

“But you will marry me.” His voice was soft and his smile was wide. “So long as I choose a sensible name for our little business, you’ll marry me.”

“I  _ will,”  _ she promised again, and she meant it; this was one promise she had every intention to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, I’m pro-choice, but this story is basically “How Nick Wilde Happened,” so obviously they were going to keep it. This was not a sensible choice for two people who were still getting to know each other and weren’t in a position financially or emotionally to support the prenatal care, let alone a child, but some people don’t make sensible choices when emotions are involved. People are allowed to make spectacularly bad decisions and then do the best they can with what they have. (Spoiler alert: Nick turns out okay.)
> 
> To anyone who caught the glaring and _horrible_ Trek reference, you’re a nerd and I love you.


End file.
